“It’ll look good on your résumé,” I assured her.
“Mind if I ask what you’re working on?”
“Wheel-spinning,” I said, returning to my desk and offering her a seat at the same time. Procrastination is, after all, one thing I excel at.
“A lot of that going around,” Cami agreed as she folded her long, lean body into the seat.
After giving the faxed pages a cursory glance, I returned my attention to the intern. Her hazel eyes were darting around my office, finally settling on the framed photograph of Patrick and me.
“Your husband?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No, boyfriend.”
“I’ve had exactly one date since I started working here.
It’s hard to meet men when you’re stuck here until the wee hours of the morning and the weekends are devoted to indexing transcripts.”
Feeling a kinship to the overworked woman, I offered her some coffee. She declined. I refilled my mug and gripped it with both hands as I brought it to my lips.
“Your case?” she prompted.
“Well, case is a bit of a stretch,” I admitted. “It’s more like appeasing a grieving widow who is convinced her husband’s death wasn’t an accident. Said grieving widow should be calling any time now for her hourly update.”
“Mrs. Evans?”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and stood on end. “Yes. How’d you know that?”
She shrugged. “I’m a trial junkie. I saw the name on the fax and remembered that José Vasquez was on the Hall jury. I was the one who put together the Evans notes to pass along to you for Mr. Dane last Monday. I remembered Marcus Evans was on that jury, too. So I just figure there is some sort of connection.”
I decided right that second that Bad Hair Girl was a little scary, and definitely not anyone I’d want to piss off.
“Good guess.”
“Too bad they’re both dead. Mr. Vasquez seemed like a nice man.”
I was more than a little stunned. “You met him?”
“All of them,” Cami admitted. “I sat in on the trial. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior year at college. I was tending bar at night, so my days were free.
I was considering applying to law school, so I attended a few trials just to see if that was really what I wanted.”
“How’d you meet the jurors?”
“They weren’t sequestered or anything. I’d run into them at lunch or outside the courthouse during breaks.
One of them, Daniel Summers, even hit on me once.”
Glancing over at the boxed transcripts, I thought Cami might be my way around reading the hundred or so volumes. Hmm. Maybe she could be my personal Cliffs Notes. It was worth a shot.
“Was there anything hinky about the trial?”
Cami shook her head with conviction. “Everyone from the orderlies to the anesthesiologist present at the transplant surgery testified that Dr. Hall did everything right.
Then there was a parade of witnesses from the post-op ward who insisted Brad Whitley’s infection came on fast and furious. Nothing short of a miracle could have saved him.”
“So why did the wife sue?”
“Grief. Sara Whitley sobbed through her whole testimony. I got the impression that she just wanted her husband’s death to be someone’s fault.”
“Sounds a lot like Mrs. Evans.” Which means that I need to stop looking for something that isn’t there.
Cami stood, smoothing the creases from her linen skirt.
“Good luck, Finley. If you ask me, the kindest thing you could do for Mrs. Evans is to tell her the truth.” She pointed toward the fax on my desk. “Telling her about José Vasquez being dead will only make things worse.”
Cami was probably right. The best thing I could do for Stacy was to convince her to let it go. I was just about to call the fileroom to have them retrieve the boxes when my phone rang. With my luck, it was probably the Widow Evans demanding an update. Well, I’d give her one. An honest one. It was time for her to accept that her husband’s tragic accident was exactly that—an
“Mind if I ask what you’re working on?”
“Wheel-spinning,” I said, returning to my desk and offering her a seat at the same time. Procrastination is, after all, one thing I excel at.
“A lot of that going around,” Cami agreed as she folded her long, lean body into the seat.
After giving the faxed pages a cursory glance, I returned my attention to the intern. Her hazel eyes were darting around my office, finally settling on the framed photograph of Patrick and me.
“Your husband?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No, boyfriend.”
“I’ve had exactly one date since I started working here.
It’s hard to meet men when you’re stuck here until the wee hours of the morning and the weekends are devoted to indexing transcripts.”
Feeling a kinship to the overworked woman, I offered her some coffee. She declined. I refilled my mug and gripped it with both hands as I brought it to my lips.
“Your case?” she prompted.
“Well, case is a bit of a stretch,” I admitted. “It’s more like appeasing a grieving widow who is convinced her husband’s death wasn’t an accident. Said grieving widow should be calling any time now for her hourly update.”
“Mrs. Evans?”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and stood on end. “Yes. How’d you know that?”
She shrugged. “I’m a trial junkie. I saw the name on the fax and remembered that José Vasquez was on the Hall jury. I was the one who put together the Evans notes to pass along to you for Mr. Dane last Monday. I remembered Marcus Evans was on that jury, too. So I just figure there is some sort of connection.”
I decided right that second that Bad Hair Girl was a little scary, and definitely not anyone I’d want to piss off.
“Good guess.”
“Too bad they’re both dead. Mr. Vasquez seemed like a nice man.”
I was more than a little stunned. “You met him?”
“All of them,” Cami admitted. “I sat in on the trial. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior year at college. I was tending bar at night, so my days were free.
I was considering applying to law school, so I attended a few trials just to see if that was really what I wanted.”
“How’d you meet the jurors?”
“They weren’t sequestered or anything. I’d run into them at lunch or outside the courthouse during breaks.
One of them, Daniel Summers, even hit on me once.”
Glancing over at the boxed transcripts, I thought Cami might be my way around reading the hundred or so volumes. Hmm. Maybe she could be my personal Cliffs Notes. It was worth a shot.
“Was there anything hinky about the trial?”
Cami shook her head with conviction. “Everyone from the orderlies to the anesthesiologist present at the transplant surgery testified that Dr. Hall did everything right.
Then there was a parade of witnesses from the post-op ward who insisted Brad Whitley’s infection came on fast and furious. Nothing short of a miracle could have saved him.”
“So why did the wife sue?”
“Grief. Sara Whitley sobbed through her whole testimony. I got the impression that she just wanted her husband’s death to be someone’s fault.”
“Sounds a lot like Mrs. Evans.” Which means that I need to stop looking for something that isn’t there.
Cami stood, smoothing the creases from her linen skirt.
“Good luck, Finley. If you ask me, the kindest thing you could do for Mrs. Evans is to tell her the truth.” She pointed toward the fax on my desk. “Telling her about José Vasquez being dead will only make things worse.”
Cami was probably right. The best thing I could do for Stacy was to convince her to let it go. I was just about to call the fileroom to have them retrieve the boxes when my phone rang. With my luck, it was probably the Widow Evans demanding an update. Well, I’d give her one. An honest one. It was time for her to accept that her husband’s tragic accident was exactly that—an
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